Pocket John: Reunion
by dalekexterminator
Summary: Living alone now, John's past relentlessly haunts him. When some strange circumstances throw him and an old friend back together, will he be able to cope? Or has time and hardships hardened his heart beyond repair? (This is a sequel to Pocket!John. If you haven't read that, you might be a bit lost.)
1. Chapter 1

Twenty or so odd years later...

John was dreaming, but he didn't know it. If someone had happened to observe him as he slept that night, they would have seen him tossing and turning, drenched in sweat. It was more than a dream. It was a nightmare. In his mind, John was running deep under the earth, a crude weapon in his hands. Something chased him. Or was he the one chasing something? He couldn't tell anymore, but either way he knew he had to keep running. Faster and faster. John didn't know where he was going. At one point he slipped and fell in something wet, losing his grip on the weapon he carried. He thought it was just water, but it was too thick for that. John didn't want to think about it. Screwing his eyes shut, he took several deep, shuddering breaths before scrambling to his feet. With a new determination, he snatched the weapon back up and continued running. Deeper and deeper. Anger flared within him. A seething, dark hatred that grew stronger with every hurried step he took. He passed people. People that he didn't know. Faceless, broken people. But he didn't care. They just made him angrier. So he kept going until he'd passed them all. At last, he could see what he was really after up ahead. A dark, crawling shape struggled along the passage way. It was hideous and disgusting, John felt a cruel flood of satisfaction as he brought the weapon down upon it. There was a sudden flash of light, temporarily blinding him. He blinked, trying to move back a little in case there was danger. But the weapon he held so tightly was lodged deep inside something and wouldn't budge. When he could see clearly again, John gasped in shock. What stared back at him with wide, disbelieving eyes was himself. He had just stabbed himself straight through the middle. Then his perspective changed. He saw through the eyes of the other him. John gaped at the thing protruding from his chest, his eyes slowly traveling along its length. Fear gripped his heart, he did not want to see what was on the other end, but it was like his head moved on its own. What stared down at him was not human. It looked like him, but then not like him at all. It's eyes blazed with fury and tortured pain. It's mouth twisted into a broken, lopsided grin. A sickening, metallic smell filled his senses and John blacked out.

John woke with a start, sitting bolt upright he gasped for breath. With his heart racing, he scrambled out of bed, his feet getting tangled in the sheets. He half-fell half-jumped to the floor only to promptly slip and land on his rear. Taking in deep gulps of air, like a fish out of water, he tried to calm his racing heart. John closed his eyes, leaning back against his makeshift bed. Another horrid dream, he thought. Will I never find peace? Running a hand through his hair in frustration, John quickly stood. He wasn't going to get anymore sleep that night anyway so he may as well make some tea.

John set some water to boil and waited. Leaning against the table, he considered the clock on the wall. The large, digital reading showed that it was 3:27 in the morning. He sighed, a long, heavy, world-weary sigh. Thoughts of the past drifted in and out of his head. Visions of desperation, fighting, and war. John shook them loose, however, covering them back up in the dark recesses of his mind when he noticed the water boiling merrily away. There was no use dwelling on things that had come and passed, he told himself firmly for the hundredth time. As he prepared his drink, John tried to focus his energy on what he was going to do in the future. Well, first of all it turned out that he would have to borrow some more tea soon. He barely had enough for one more cup. With another sigh, he sat down heavily to enjoy his hot beverage. John was just getting comfortable when his mind started wandering once more. It seemed he was cursed to forever live in the dark shadows of his past. So, instead of fighting it, John turned his thoughts away from the work he used to do and tried to focus on something happier. His mind went straight to Harry, his little sister. Not quite so little the last time he saw her. She had long since grown up and grown tired of all his mollycoddling. He smiled fondly as he recalled the days they spent in the city with their uncle. The days before he had gone to war.

*THUMP*

The sudden noise shocked John back to reality. The dull vibrations rattling his bones. Then everything was still again. Briefly he wondered what could have happened but quickly shook it off. It was none of his concern. These days he did his best to stay out of the affairs of Beans.

His mind slowly went back to wandering again. Unfortunately, it returned to less pleasant subjects. John recalled the last day he spent with his sister. And that night. That night they had argued. Of course, they had fought plenty of times through the years, but this had been different. Mostly because John had wanted that day to be perfect. Funny how even the best intentions can turn sour. John knew he was leaving that night, so he had planned a special day out for him and Harry. It had gone fine until they returned home that evening. Before John could tell her his plans, she had made her own announcement. One that John was less than happy about. She had wanted to go borrowing with friends. Now, this shouldn't have been a big deal, but Harry hadn't actually been borrowing without John or their uncle before. It was such a stupid argument. John had tried to stop her. Some things were said. Things that hurt both sides. And she'd left anyway. So he never got to tell her. Now that he thought about it, he should have waited. He should have said a proper goodbye. But he'd been so angry at the time. He left a note for her and that was it.

*THUMP*

This time the shock carried him to his feet. John waited and listened for a moment, but it was quiet once again. He shook his head as he slowly sat back down. If it happened again he would go investigate. He was just so tired right now. Maybe he could actually get some more sleep.

With a weary groan, John stood and walked to bed. Well, more like limped. It seemed his leg was bothering him more and more lately. He collapsed in the middle of the plush, homemade mattress and instantly slipped into unconsciousness. Thankfully, he had no more dreams.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock was completely, utterly, and irrevocably bored. Well, that was a bit of an exaggeration, but that was how he felt at the moment. He was sprawled out on the couch, one arm dangling over the side, drumming his fingers on the floor. Wide awake, though he hadn't slept for more than a few hours in several days, Sherlock grew more and more restless. He'd already solved half a dozen cases just by reading the paper and watching the news, quickly becoming disgusted by the stupidity of the general public. Violently switching the Telly off, he'd thrown the remote away from him and flopped dejectedly onto the couch where he now remained. With a sigh, he massaged his temples, wishing for something, anything, to do. Then his cellphone rang.

Never before had Sherlock answered a call more quickly.

"Yes."

"Sherlock?" Lestrade's voice sounded on the other end. He seemed surprised.

"Yes, it's me. Who else would pick up my phone?"

"Right, sorry, it's just... You usually don't answer so-"

"Never mind that." Sherlock quickly interrupted, "what do you want?"

"We've got a case. Really nasty business. Apparently suicide, but it seems a bit strange. I was hoping you might-"

"And what, pray tell, makes you think I could be of any assistance? I mean, based on the news today, the police seem to be doing a bang up job of ridding the streets of crime. Just look at how you've handled that triple homicide case, absolutely brilliant."

Lestrade was quite put out by this response. "We caught them in the end, didn't we? And what's more-"

"Please spare me your excuses, detective. If they had listened to me from the start, it would have been a single homicide and you know it."

"Whatever. Look, I'm texting you the address. Get here or not, it makes no difference to me." And with that, he hung up.

Sherlock carefully set his phone on the coffee table before leaping off of the couch in a sudden surge of energy. Shaking the stiffness from his limbs, he let a grin steal across his face as he grabbed his coat and slipped it over his thin frame. Sherlock snatched his phone back up, making sure Lestrade had indeed texted him before pocketing it. Then, he strode out the door, taking his scarf along with him as he did. It was chilly that day, and something in the air told Sherlock things were about to change.

**AN: sorry this one's so short guys :( I'm working on the next part and hoping it'll be decently long. Fingers crossed! As always, thanks so much for reading!**


	3. Chapter 3

John woke up slowly several hours later, which was unusual for him. Unusual in that he usually did not sleep so long without interruption, whether real or imaginary. He stretched and yawned, blinking contentedly. Did he actually get some solid hours of sleep? John shrugged and got out of bed. He had things to do today, he couldn't worry about something good finally happening to him.  
As soon as his feet hit the floor, he knew something was different. It took him a second to figure out what.  
John felt good.  
Not just good, he felt fantastic. He stretched a bit to test out his leg. It was still stiff, of course, but it didn't ache nearly as much as usual.  
How long had it been? How long had he been living with that near constant throbbing, muted pain? Since his injury. The incident that got him discharged.  
That time, twenty years ago. It felt like only yesterday he was fighting. Fighting to save lives. As many lives as he could in that pointless, stupid war. War? More like a child's squabble between politicians.  
But what did he know?  
John was just a soldier. A doctor. Who was no longer fit for duty. Now he was useless. Now he was alone.  
Shocked, he shook these thoughts out of his head. He shouldn't be thinking about that now. Now he actually felt well and somewhat whole. Now he needed to enjoy the feeling while it lasted. Which he did not believe would be for long.  
Right now, he needed tea.  
Determined to think positively, John stood and limped to the kitchen. It wasn't until he checked his stock that he remembered he needed more tea. At first John was disappointed, but he decided to look on the bright side. A good borrowing trip was exactly what he needed right now. A little adventure. Not that borrowing from this particular bean was much of an adventure. John had chosen this house to live in for a reason. The bean he stayed with lived alone, worked at late hours, slept in, was laid back, and generally never noticed when a few small things went missing. This way, John could borrow either in the early morning or late at night without much fear of being caught. The long hours where the house was entirely empty were especially helpful given his bad leg slowed him considerably. During the middle of the day, when the bean was home, he relaxed, occupying himself with whatever he could. In other words, being completely bored out of his mind or plagued by nightmares and daydreams of the past. The frequent borrowing trips, John was convinced, were the only things keeping him sane.  
Pulling on his hand made boots, John grabbed his backpack and cane and left the small area he called home. He made his way through the walls until he reached the right spot. A small section of the wall that he had cut out in the kitchen so he could borrow food when he needed it. Pushing against it gently, the piece easily came out. It was shaped like a diamond to match the pattern of the wallpaper. John set it on the ground, which was actually the counter, and hopped out. He was behind the large toaster oven, and for a moment John stood still. Listening for any telltale signs that a bean was nearby. There was nothing but the sound of the great grandfather clock tick tick ticking away the time.  
'The bean must still be asleep,' John thought.  
So he emerged from his hiding spot and began making his way across the counter. Approaching the sink, John slowed down. The bean's box of tea was on the other side, so he had to watch his step. One wrong move and he could find himself in for a very difficult climb. There was space between the wall and the back of the sink just wide enough for him to travel across without too much difficulty. John made his way over, careful to avoid slick puddles of water. When he reached the other side John went straight to the tea. It was a box of earl grey, nothing fancy. The bean lived a simple life as did John so he had nothing to complain about. Without further ado he lifted the lid and climbed inside.  
John propped the lid open with his cane to let the light in. He needed to be able to see what he was doing. The tea bags came in sets of two. Usually, there was a lone one, from when the bean had one cup but didn't have time for another, that he could grab quickly. However, that did not seem to be the case this time so John had to separate a pack himself because he did not have room for two. This task proved to be more difficult than he anticipated and kept him there longer than he should have been. It so engrossed him that he hardly noticed the sirens. When he finally finished, John grinned in victory, but it was a victory short lived. Just at that moment, he heard the pounding of many feet and muffled shouts from outside. But it wasn't until they stormed inside that he began to panic.  
That only lasted a second, however, before his instincts kicked in. John quickly grabbed his cane and pulled the box shut, sinking into darkness and relative safety. Now he could only wait.  
For hours he was stuck there. A great commotion was going on outside and it took him a while to discover what it was all about. But, from snatches of short conversations John managed to gather that this was now the scene of a crime. A murder to be more specific. The bean who had lived here was now dead, and the police suspected foul play.  
This came as quite a shock to John. He could hardly understand why anyone would want to kill the bean he had been living with. He had seemed like a very peaceful fellow to John. So why? And why now, of all times? John sighed, it was just his rotten luck to get stuck in a tea box right in the middle of an investigation. Just as he was beginning to think that he was never getting out, John heard someone's heavy footsteps draw uncomfortably close to his hiding spot.  
John held his breath.  
Whoever it was was actually leaning against the counter directly across from him. John could hear the ruffle of his clothing and the creak of the counter as it settled. It was terrifying.  
However, after a moment he calmed down considerably. John, surprising even himself, suddenly felt the urge to take a look. Just a peak, to see what was going on. He had been in the dark so long, he didn't think one quick look could hurt.  
So, the long buried side of him, the side that couldn't resist an adventure, revived a little. After several deep breaths, he slowly reached up. Pushing the lid ever so gently, John squinted as the sliver of light hit his eyes.  
He couldn't see much from this vantage point, but John did make out a few things. The bean was a man, with greying hair. He had his back to John, however, so he couldn't make out his face. The bean shifted back and forth, as though he was uncomfortable. Scratching the back of his head, he finally sighed in resignation and pulled out his smartphone. The bean dialed a number and held it up to his ear.  
It only took a few seconds for the person on the other side to answer. Though John couldn't make out that side of the conversation, he heard the other very clearly.  
"Sherlock?"  
The bean sounded surprised. But it was nothing compared to the shock that that one word sent coursing through John's system. He fell back, stunned. It was just a name, but to John it was so many memories he had tried, and failed, to forget. For a long moment, he felt numb. Then reason kicked in. Sherlock wasn't that unusual a name, was it? Surely there were plenty of beans known as Sherlock. Still, John was severely shaken. Once he got it into his head that it was not the same Sherlock, however, he was able to recover enough to listen again.  
"We've got a case. Really nasty business. Apparently suicide, but it seems a bit strange. I was hoping you might-"  
The bean was interrupted and seemed very put out by it. There was a long pause and he made several motions in the air like he was strangling an invisible person. Whoever he was talking to was greatly aggravating him.  
"We caught them in the end, didn't we? And what's more-"  
He seemed to be arguing with the other person. And was apparently losing.  
"Whatever. Look, I'm texting you the address. Get here or not, it makes no difference to me."  
He hung up, running a hand through his hair in frustration. He muttered some things under his breath that John didn't quite catch, but he got the distinct impression that they were not pleasant.  
Another bean called him away and John was left alone with his thoughts. For a second, just one second, he allowed himself to consider the possibility that this Sherlock was the very same Sherlock that he had known. The same boy he had spent many pleasant hours talking to. The same friend he had met all those years ago.  
And for one second John hoped beyond hope that it wasn't.

**AN: next part may take longer for me to write. There is Sherlock deducing things involved and I still have no idea how I'm going to do that. But in any case I hope you guys enjoyed this one. Thanks for reading!**


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock arrived expecting a fairly simple case. In a way, he was disappointed. Though it seemed pretty strait forward at first, little did he know that this would be the case to change his life forever. He stood in the kitchen as Lestrade filled him in on the details. Male, late-stixties, lived alone, the woman who came in to clean had found him that morning and the police came soon after. The body was in the sitting room, adjacent to the kitchen. Sherlock took it all in at a glance. He had been hung, supposedly by his own doing, from the ceiling fan with a noose made from a bed sheet. There was a note on the coffee table. Sherlock moved about the room ignoring everyone. All the officers and forensic specialists watched him in silent wonder and even a few with distaste. When he finished, he approached Lestrade.

"And this is exactly as you found it?" He asked.

"We haven't touched a thing except to dust for prints."

"Hmm, well, you were right about one thing. Not a suicide."

"So, murder?"

"Yes, that's what I mean by 'not suicide.'"

"How can you be sure?"

Sherlock smiled at this question. It was always asked and he always loved giving the answer.

"First, this man has apparently hung himself in his living room. That in itself is unusual. Why the living room? It's simple, really, the perpetrator killed the victim here and didn't want to drag the body to another location. Say, the bedroom, for example."

"But, there's no sign of a struggle. Or anything to suggest someone forced their way in." Lestrade pointed out.

"Ah, yes, our killer was very carful about that. They didn't break in, which suggests they were either let in by the victim himself or had a key. As for the struggle, I can't imagine this old man putting up much of a fight. Even so, if you look closely, you can see some evidence."

Sherlock moved swiftly across the room. Crouching down, he pointed at the rug. It was an old grey thing. The pattern on it was so faded one could hardly tell what it used to be.

"Here. If you look closely, you'll notice these wrinkles in the rug. These were caused by someone bumping into this chair here."

He stood and patted the back of said old-fashioned seat. The chair was positioned on the rug so if moved it would indeed cause it to wrinkle. Lestrade was still far from convinced, so Sherlock continued.

"On the wooden floor here, see, there are scuff marks. Now, this floor would not easily be marked so, unless sufficient pressure was put upon it. So, during the struggle, the victim attempted to use their weight to lean back against the attacker and get away. Obviously that didn't work."

Sherlock began to walk backwards, looking at the ground the whole while.

"If you follow the pattern of the marks, you begin to see the general direction of the struggle."

Bumping into a small, decorative table by the wall, Sherlock paused. He picked up a fat, clay pot that sat there, probably hand made, and examined it.

"See this large crack here, running through it. I would say they hit the stand here, knocking this pot onto the floor. It wasn't enough to break it, but plenty enough do this damage. After everything was over, the killer replaced it."

"Or, the man just isn't very good at pottery." Lestrade interjected.

Sherlock put the pot back, ignoring him.

"Check the body for more indications of a struggle. Also, be sure to examine the area around the victim's neck. I doubt the killer used that sheet to strangle him."

He moved as if to leave, but Lestrade stopped him. The Detective Inspector pulled him aside to have a private word.

(John POV)

When Sherlock arrived, John couldn't believe it. It was him, though. His old friend, Sherlock Holmes. That much was obvious to John the moment he caught a glimpse of him. It had been a long time, but John would recognize that face and voice anywhere, anytime. Then, he began sweeping around as though he owned the place, making observations and showing up the police officers who stood by at a respectful, yet cold, distance. John was in awe of his apparent abilities. The boy had always been talented, but that was over twenty years ago. Now, he was brilliant. At least, in John's eyes, he sure seemed that way.

The others present on the scene, however, would hardly have expressed this sentiment.

To John's surprise, they seemed less than impressed. Or, if they were, they didn't show it. Indeed, the one bean (Lestrade, was his name?) seemed more inclined to doubt him. When Sherlock was finished, the Lestrade fellow brought him into the kitchen, to talk, Watson supposed.

After waving to the other people to continue working, the detective inspector began to speak. John heard every word as they were now uncomfortably close to his hiding place.

"Sherlock, you are right about this, yes?"

"When have you ever known me to be wrong, Detective?" The way he said detective rang as an insult to John's ears. He wondered at the apparent dislike Sherlock had for the man.

Lestrade sighed in frustration. "It just seems a bit… Like a bit of a stretch. Even for you."

"Don't worry about it. Just let me know when you've confirmed foul play and have a suspect." His voice was so cold. John shuddered, wondering what might have happened to make him sound like that.

A sudden wave of guilt crashed over John. Regret threatened to drown him. What if he had made the wrong decision? What if it would have been better if he'd stayed? No. He had put family first and there was nothing wrong with that. Whatever happened to Sherlock happened. And probably happened a long time ago. It wasn't John's fault. He had been through his own fare share of hardships and had ended up alone.

Yet still, he felt guilty.

"You mean you don't already have a suspect?" John snapped back to reality at Lestrade's half-amused comment.

"I never said that, detective." With a smirk and a nod, he was gone.

John caught Lestrade rolling his eyes before the place was filled with activity again. A few hours later and people began to empty out. All pictures taken, all evidence bagged, the body taken away to be examined, there was no reason to stay. Only one officer remained outside to keep curious pedestrians out. Once again, John was completely alone.

He breathed a sigh of relief. Relaxing for a moment in the darkness of the tea box. Finally, after checking one more time that the coast was clear, he climbed out. It was strange being out in the open again. He stretched out his sore muscles and took in his surroundings. Everything was just like it was. It was almost like no one had been there at all. It had all been so surreal, John felt as though a hundred years had passed him in the blink of an eye. He felt old and world-weary.

John realized he probably shouldn't be standing out in the open and began to make his way back home. His mind was blank and refused to work properly. He wondered briefly if the shock had given him brain damage. Then, because he wasn't paying attention, John slipped on a puddle of water. He didn't fall, but it took a moment of flailing to regain his balance. The rush of adrenaline seemed to jump start his mind and he realized that he was completely parched. Eyeing the faucet, he wondered if he could make a quick refill.

Making his way carefully along the side of the sink, John reached the handle. A quick twist and small stream of water trickled out of the faucet. Now was the hard part. There was a thin ledge that divided the sink into two halves. John would have to walk down this in order to get to the water. It was tricky business trying to keep his balance on the slick divider. But John had done it plenty of times and hadn't fallen in yet. With that in mind, he made his way across.

When he came to the water, John took his fill. Cupping his hands under the stream, he drank deeply. He splashed the cool water over his face, letting it soothe his troubled mind. John pulled out his canteen next and began to fill it.

Then the sense hit him like a kick in the gut.

Someone was about to see him.

**AN: man, this one took so long! But, I'm back now and I hope you've enjoyed this latest installment! (I know it was an absolute /pain/ to write) XD. And yes, I realize that I am evil. plz forgive me for this cliffhanger! I'm going to try to get the next part up this weekend to make it up to you all. As always, thanks for reading and have an awesome day!**


	5. Chapter 5

John heard the click of the door latch. Someone was coming in. If he didn't make himself scarce right now, he would be seen. He turned, throwing caution to the winds, and ran back along the ledge. But his foot hit a patch of water, sending him careening over the side. Time seemed to slow down as he fell. John felt like he was just hanging there, suspended in the air. It seemed to take forever for him to hit the ground, but in reality it was only seconds. He landed on his back, hard. Grunting in pain, John slapped a hand over his mouth to keep himself from crying out. It hurt like hell, but he could not risk the bean, or beans, hearing him. Gritting his teeth, he slowly pushed himself up. John stood to quickly, however, and a ringing filled his ears as dizziness set in. He had to lean against the side of the sink for support, trying to catch his breath. He was barely aware of the sound of footsteps coming nearer. Then he realized that the water was still running. Whoever it was was probably coming over to shut it off.

John was, unfortunately, quite correct in his assumption.

A shadow fell over him and he looked up, dread and panic covering the pain he felt. An enormous hand moved above him, reaching for the faucet handle. When the water was shut off, it, thankfully, was retracted. John allowed himself to relax, breathing a sigh of relief. But then, a larger shadow fell. Watson felt all the strength drain out of his body, he could barely make himself look up again. When he did he couldn't help but take a few involuntary steps back.

It had been over twenty years since the last time he'd been seen. And it was no less terrifying now. Sherlock Holmes was staring down at him with an unreadable expression.

It was one thing to see his old friend again from a distance, and then only glimpses, but it was quite another to have him so suddenly looming above him. John froze up, he literally could not move. It was as if those steel grey eyes had trapped him in an icy prison.

Then Sherlock averted his gaze for a moment and shifted. A hand was slowly lowered into the sink. John felt a surge of panic, expecting the worst. But he still couldn't get himself to move, run, do anything. The hand stopped just inches from him. He wondered why at first. It took him a moment to realize the hand was holding something and then even longer to make out what it was.

It was his canteen. He must have dropped it when he slipped and it landed on the other side of the sink. Why was Sherlock giving it to him?

His heart pounding in his ears, John forced his hands to move. Slowly, and not a little shakily, he reached out. When his hands wrapt around the simply made item, Sherlock's fingers gently loosened. Then his hand withdrew completely. Clutching the canteen to his chest, John sank to his knees. His heart was still going a mile a minute, but at the same time, he felt relieved. Breathing as though he had just run a marathon, he hoped he wasn't about to have a heart attack.

"So... Do you have a name?"

John looked up, surprised. The bean above him now had his arms crossed on the front of the sink and was resting his chin on them. He gazed down his nose at John, a curious twinkle in his eye.

"Ah, it's- it's John... John Watson."

John watched his expression change from one of amused curiosity to downright disbelief and shock. He tried to smile a little, and not feel at all sad that his old friend hadn't recognized him. John failed miserably at both.

Suddenly that didn't concern him for a moment as his entire view was filled by Sherlock's face. The bean was bent over, leaning into the sink to get a better look at him. John drew back a little, surprised.

"John? It really is you." Sherlock recognized him then. John could see it in his eyes.

"Yeah, Sherlock. It's really me." He had never felt so nervous in his life.

Sherlock withdrew slowly, completely stunned. He just stood there, staring at John, for the longest time. It started to make the borrower very uncomfortable.

Finally, John decided to speak up, "Sooo... glad to see you're still... looking well." He mentally kicked himself for his choice of words. Honestly, was that the best he could do? He was just at a loss for what to say in this situation.

But, his words seemed to have an affect on Sherlock. He blinked, coming out of his sudden reverie.

Clearing his throat, he replied quietly, "likewise."

There was silence again. Sherlock was no longer staring at him, but somehow that seemed worse. To John he looked incredibly sad all of a sudden, and the guilt, once again, settled over his heart. He glanced around fervently, trying to take his mind off it. There had to be something here that could relieve him of these memories and the dreadful feelings that came with them. But all he saw were the steep sides of the sink. John realized then with a jolt just how trapped he was. He was completely at Sherlock's mercy. Unless he wanted to try his luck down the garbage disposal, which he did not.

"John," at the sound of that voice, his eyes snapped back to Sherlock. "It looks as though you could use some assistance out of your current predicament." He smiled a little and John felt a wave of relief wash over him.

"Ah, yes, actually." John laughed nervously.

Sherlock slowly moved his hand until it was inside the sink next to John. The borrower took a deep breath before hopping onto the outstretched palm. He felt his stomach drop as he was lifted into the air. The world became blurry as they moved. John caught a glimpse of Sherlock's face pass him and then he was looking into the large expanse of the sitting room. Sherlock approached the couch and, bending over, he set John gently onto the coffee table then sat down himself. However, he didn't sit on the couch, but rather, directly in front of it. This way he could speak with John directly and not loom over him so much.

Now they could have a proper talk.


	6. Chapter 6

An awkward silence fell heavily over the two would-be friends. To John, Sherlock seemed to be a bit on edge. He fidgeted and frowned, sometimes staring at the borrower intently, other times his eyes swept back and forth over the room. Whatever was on his mind, he wasn't saying it. Unable to stand the silence any more, John cleared his throat and decided he may as well start.

"So, why'd you come back here anyway?"

"I, ah, left my phone." He replied simply, lifting up the device as proof.

"You don't seem like the type to forget things."

Sherlock smiled at this, considering John a bit more carefully before answering. "No, I'm not. I left it on purpose."

"Why?" It was a simple question, but Sherlock seemed surprised by it. Like he wasn't used to people actually caring about why he did things.

"I needed an excuse to get another look at the crime scene." He indicated the room in which they were now sitting with a wave of his hand. "I do that sometimes. It helps me to focus when I'm just looking around with no one else present."

John nodded in understanding, not sure what else he should say. The lull in their conversation only lasted a few seconds, when John decided to ask what it was he had wanted to know for a while now.

"How did you do it?"

"Hmm? Do what?" Sherlock had started to fiddle with the smartphone in his hands and so was a bit distracted.

"You know, find all that stuff out about what happened here."

"Observation is the key to a successful investigation." He said this like it as the most obvious thing in the world.

"All those little things you noticed, that was all it took for you to determine that it was murder?" John was somewhat skeptical. Could you really conclude so much from so little?

"Hardly. There is more evidence here. However, I only tell the police what they need to know."

"What other evidence is there? What more did you find out?" The questions came before John could stop them. The subject seemed innocent enough and John was genuinely curious, but Sherlock was acting very standoffish. It made him feel like he had to be careful not say the wrong thing. Although it pained John to admit it, he did not really know Sherlock any more. John would have to watch his step, at least until he knew where he stood.

Sherlock hesitated for a brief moment. Once again he seemed surprised and even slightly puzzled at John's interest. Surprised, but not displeased. In fact it was just the opposite. Sherlock loved any opportunity to show off.

"Well, in cases like this, a major piece of evidence is the note. Generally, whenever the police see a note by a dead body, the case is immediately written off as a suicide. But this note seemed odd to me. It was short and printed. Now, my first impression of this man was that he was old-fashioned. That being the case, it seems only logical that he would have a handwritten, lengthy note with plenty of details and brimming with sentimentality. Not a brief 'I'm sorry,' and 'I can't live like this anymore.'"

He stopped and frowned, unsure of whether or not he should continue.

"Is there more?" John had been paying rapt attention through Sherlock's explanation and wanted him to continue. It was fascinating listening to him go on about his work and, John had to admit, very impressive.

Seeing as he still had an attentive audience, Sherlock happily continued. "The man's appearance was neat, meticulous. At his time of his death, he was wearing a nice suit and shoes. You only wear shoes if you're about to go out. So, who gets up in the morning, carefully dresses for work, and then commits suicide. It doesn't make sense."

He seemed to turn in on himself after this. Though he continued to speak, it was more to himself than to John. "What I need is the motive. And why make it look like a suicide? Was this personal? Unfinished business, perhaps? And there is something about this house. I can't quite put my finger on it, but something is not right here…"

He frowned again, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. John let him remain silent, having a few things to think about himself. Such as; who on earth would want to kill the bean he had been living with? He'd seemed like a nice enough man. A bit reclusive and secretive maybe, but John had noticed nothing that would suggest he was involved in anything unsavory. But, then again, he hadn't exactly been looking. John generally tried to avoid anything to do with beans, so it wasn't as if he would know if something were going on.

As he was thinking this, Sherlock suddenly stood. The borrower jumped, his heart leaping in his throat as the giant towered above him. Once again, he was painfully reminded of just how small he really was.

"Wait here, I'll be right back." And with that, he disappeared up the stairs.

John released the breath he did not realize he had been holding. Well, one thing hadn't changed, Sherlock was just as strange and unpredictable as he had been twenty years ago. He smiled a little as he recalled their first encounter. When Sherlock had reached out, almost unthinkingly, just to make sure that he was real. Everything had been so simple back then. They had gotten along so easily. John wasn't sure exactly when they became friends, it just sort of… Happened. And now? Now what were they?

Sherlock returned then with a determined look on his face. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he immediately went sit back down in front of John. However, a change seemed to have come over him. He had a much more professional air about him.

"Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?" The way he said this took John completely off guard. It was so different from the awkwardness that had pervaded his speech just a few minutes ago. Now it was determined and emotionless. John might even describe it as robotic.

"Uuhhh, no, go right ahead." John hoped he didn't sound as confused as he felt.

"You know this place better than I do. Has anything strange happened recently? Have you noticed anything out of the ordinary?"

John shook his head, "no. Everything was perfectly normal until this morning, when I found out he was dead."

"Are you sure? You must have been here at the time of death. You didn't see or hear anything?" Sherlock pressed.

"Well… I did hear some strange thumping sounds last night. I didn't bother to investigate though, so I have no idea what they were."

"What time was this?"

John had to think for a second before answering that one, "uuummm… Around three in the morning, I think."

"Most likely, then, that's the time of death." Sherlock nodded, filing that information away.

John couldn't suppress a shudder. Those had been the sounds of the struggle? While he had been up making tea, a man was being murdered. Right above his head, no less. He was certainly not going to be staying here for much longer.

"Are you sure there's nothing else? Maybe there have been strange visitors or certain people not showing up when they're supposed to?"

Shaking his head firmly, John answered, "the man was a loner. That's part of the reason I chose to live here. There's hardly anyone in or out besides him."

Sherlock smiled. Well, it was more of a self satisfied smirk. And it made John a little uneasy.

"What? Is that important?" The borrower finally asked.

"Perhaps," was all he replied with, but he said it in such a way as to suggest that it was, in fact, very important.

Before John could question him further on the matter, he was very suddenly surprised by a hand lying flat in front of him. Sherlock's long fingers curled slightly in a hurrying gesture.

"C'mon, Watson, we haven't got all day."

John could barely believe his ears. And did he just call him Watson?

"Excuse me!?" He finally managed to sputter.

"I'm not very well going to leave you here. You are clearly vital to this case. And it's not safe for you to be living right in the middle of a crime scene. So, come with me."

Was he even really considering this? John couldn't believe it. Maybe twenty years ago, he might take such a chance, but now? He was older, but wasn't he also supposed to be wiser? And yet, here he was, seriously considering putting his life in the hands of-

A friend?

He didn't even know anymore. But then again, maybe this was the universe giving him a second chance. Or maybe it was just dicking with him. Either way, his decision was the same.

With a shrug that said 'eh, why the hell not?' He climbed onto the outstretched palm and held on tight. To his surprise, though perhaps he should have expected this, he was immediately deposited into Sherlock's coat pocket. It made sense, the bean couldn't exactly carry him around without drawing a lot of attention. But it was still highly uncomfortable. The last thing he heard before they left his old home was a quick shout of;

"The game is afoot!"

**AN: ehhhhh, I feel a lot like John towards the end there, I don't even know anymore. Sorry for the long wait, guys. Thanks so much for being patient. I hope you like this part and thank you for reading! (Also, sorry if the end sounds kinda bonkers, I just finished it and it's half past midnight over here so I'm a little out of it :P)**


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